THE BRUSHWOOD BOY
"It 's only a duck. They can do it up very neatly at Mallet's," said the mother, simply. "You won't mind, will you? We 'll have a scratch dinner at nine, because it 's so hot."
The long summer day dragged itself out for centuries; but at last there was tea on the lawn, and Miriam appeared.
She was in the saddle before he could offer to help, with the clean spring of the child who mounted the pony for the Thirty-Mile Ride. The day held mercilessly, though Georgie got down thrice to look for imaginary stones in Rufus's foot. One cannot say even simple things in broad light, and this that Georgie meditated was not simple. So he spoke seldom, and Miriam was divided between relief and scorn. It annoyed her that the great hulking thing should know she had written the words of the song overnight; for though a maiden may sing her most secret fancies aloud, she does not care to have them trampled over by the male Philistine. They rode into the little red-brick street of Bassett, and Georgie made untold fuss over the disposition of that duck. It must go in just such a package, and be fastened to the saddle in just such a manner, though eight o'clock had struck and they were miles from dinner.
"We must be quick!" said Miriam, bored and angry.
"There 's no great hurry; but we can cut over Dowhead Down, and let 'em out on the grass. That will save us half an hour."
The horses capered on the short, sweet-smelling turf, and the delaying shadows gathered in the valley as
[424]
